


Rise of the Flightless

by Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Burning, Burns, Drug Abuse Mention, Hospitalisation, It's sad for the beginning, M/M, Major Character Injury, Rating May Change, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tags May Change, This will eventually be a happy story, Violence, Wing AU, Wings, drug mention, johnlock is established, mentions of drug abuse, winged au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-20 21:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16563779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage/pseuds/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage
Summary: Life in London had been relatively normal for the last year and a half, but Greg knows it can't last forever. So, when a stranger plummets from the sky into a crime scene with wounds unlike anything he's seen before he has no choice to try to help him. What he doesn't expect is the stranger's big brother to show up and the only thing he can think is 'bloody hell he's gorgeous'.





	1. The Fallen Stranger

The sky had been cloudless that autumn morning. Cloudless, a pool of clear blue that spread as far as the eye could see. It was days like this Greg wished he could spread his wings and fly as far as he could go. In fact, it was days like this that made him hate how grounded his job made him; the persistent flashes of blue illuminating the body lying in the back alley and bringing him back to the situation at hand.  
  
Murder, cold blooded murder. This had been the seventh in a timescale of a year and it frustrated Greg to no end. He and his team had thought they were close to a solution but apparently this wasn't the case. There was a symbol carved into the wrists of each victim, a triquetra or 'trinity knot', but that was the only tie to each case.  
  
"Anderson's about to examine the body," came a voice from behind him and the Inspector turned to look at his co-worker Sally Donnovan; a sigh slipped from his lips and he shook his head, his smoke-coloured wings ruffling with discomfort. "From what I can tell, nobody's made a note of this to take back to the office."  
  
"Alright, I'm going to make a few calls. You guys carry on, I wont be too long."  
  
Sally watched as her boss turned to walk away and looked him over with a frown of her own. Gregory Lestrade was a 5'9 man with silvering hair and stubble to match, a relatively square face and the most soulful eyes. All around attractive in her eyes, even down to the stunning wings that was slowly turning into the colour of ash left behind by a fire that just burnt out. Small specks of their original brown was hidden amongst the sea of grey, one of the main indicators that this line of work was far too stressful for someone as good natured as Greg. One noticeable thing about his wings was that one of them was shredded beyond repair, enough for him to never be able to fly again. Injured in the line of duty he would explain if anyone asked, never going into more detail. Despite of this, he hadn't quit his job and had pushed himself to even go further with his career than anyone had thought possible; so what if he was flightless?  
  
The DI had shown up at the station when he was much younger, according to the elder members of the team. What nobody expected was he had shown up on the other side of the table, a troublemaker who had refused to cave in to rules and regulations. Flying in no-flight zones, getting into unlawful fights, as well as numerous other crimes that had never been mentioned on a night out. Somehow, the man had turned himself around one day and started training to be a cop. Working from the bottom hadn't been easy, but through the last ten years he had built himself up to become a respectable member of society.  
  
"You're worrying about him," Anderson commented as he knelt beside her, beginning his forensic examination of the body as the sun began to peek over the rooftops. He wasn't able to read people like Lestrade was able to, but he could tell by the way she watched the man she was worrying herself sick. "Stop it, c'mon. We've got a job to do."  
  


* * *

  
Greg shook his head as he was met with the dull dial tone which meant that once again, nobody was picking up at the office. He was going to damn well make sure somebody was there at all times and was doing their job, that was for sure. "Come on you bast-"  
  
_Thud._  
  
A couple feet in front of the man a figure hit the ground, the resulting crack of what could be presumed as bones breaking made him flinch. Dark, coal wings were torn between said bones, blood spilling out onto the concrete below in a crimson pool. The sound of shouts from officer's on standby drowned out the wheezing of a potentially punctured lung.  
  
"Shit, get an ambulance here!" He shouted, crossing those few feet to crouch down by the figure, now determined to be male, was lying on his back. Beneath him, a wing was crushed and the other flapped rather uselessly. "Can you hear me? Hello? It's going to be alright now, we've got you!"  
  
The man was covered in injuries. Cuts were slashed across his arms, his torso and his wings at first glance though who knew what was beneath the long belstaff coat. Bruises were noted around his pale neck, bright yellow with specks of purple impossible to hide. There were even bite marks to be noted, something which set Greg's stomach into churning the more he examined. Cracked lips parted and Greg leaned down to try and hear what he was trying to say, hoping that he would be able to tell them something useful before yet another investigation is started.  
  
" _Don't... don't let him,_ " he whispered, voice cracking with the pain as he grimaced. " _John... where...?_ "  
  
"Easy now, lad. We'll find this John, okay? I need you to stay awake now; can you tell me your name?"  
  
"Sherlock- Oh god, _Sherlock_!"  
  
There was the chorus of _'sir, you can't come in here'_ and _'sir, please wait outside the police tape!'_ as a blond man raced onto the crime scene. His eyes were filled with worry, too much strain for a man of his age, his whole body appearing tense enough to strike the next person to tell him to stay away.  
  
"Please, I'm a doctor; I can help him!" The man pleaded, voice breaking at the sight of the man on the floor, presumably called Sherlock, who lay unmoving and pretty broken. "I'm Doctor John Watson, _please_ let me help!"  
  
A doctor? Luck was on their side apparently. Greg shifted and gestured for the man to approach, not knowing how much of a help he could be. He watched as John talked to Sherlock softly, bandaging what wounds he could access and listening to the wheeze in his chest with a grave face.  
  
"You've called an ambulance, yea'?"  
  
"Yeah, they'll be here any minute, mate. Listen, when he's in hospital I'm going to need to have a chat with you. Do you know what's happened?"  
  
"No more than you," John winced and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair, checking for any damage to the scalp as the sirens began to screech in the distance. God, this day couldn't get much worse. "Sherlock you... you cock. You told me you were going out but- _jesus_ _christ_."  
  
The ambulance crew arrived within five minutes of John's arrival on the scene, discussing with the doctor what had been done and what he'd found while Greg filled in the details of how bad the collision had been with the ground. There were murmurs of concern, 'Sherlock' and 'injury' and 'flightless' being spewed way too carelessly for the Investigator's liking. He assisted the crew in fitting Sherlock into the ambulance, trying to block out the broken cries of pain as bones shifted dangerously. Wings were delicate and exceptionally sensitive to the touch, so the pain the man was going through was something Greg hoped he'd never have to endure; he'd come close to that once but never again.  
  
"Excuse me, Detective Inspector?" A new voice broke through the cries of pain and he turned, eyeing up a new face that had appeared on the scene.  
  
The man stood at 6'0, his dark brown hair slicked back to reveal streaks of copper in the summer sunlight. His cobalt eyes were piercing, staring through the shorter man as though he weren't truly there; his thin lips curled into a sneer of distrust. Adorning a black pinstripe suit and holding such an air of authority it was stifling, Greg couldn't help but find novelty in the black umbrella that was held tightly in his right hand. His back adorned great wings as fiery as his hair, a stunning contrast to the lush blue of the sky above. A stereotypical posh bastard; what did he want?  
  
"Yes, can I help you?" He asked at last, standing a little straighter while staring down this newcomer. "You should be behind the police tape, sir, you're not allowed back here."  
  
"I assure you I am," came the haughty reply, the man's eyebrow arched upwards. "My authority here in fact weighs above your own, Inspector Lestrade. Though, I shan't play that card right now. My name is Mycroft Holmes, that man in the ambulance happens to be my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes. I am here as a... concerned family member, as well as an investigator. "  
  
That condescending tone boiled Greg's blood to his very core, eyes burning a hole through the middle of Mycroft's forehead. Now, he was a people person, but the way this posh asshole was talking to him, daring to imply he had the power here... it was infuriating. Despite that, Greg found himself looking at those sharp blue eyes once again, the way his copper hair glinted at him in the light, there was even the slightest trace of stubble on the man's chin. It was a disaster, he found, looking at this man because the first and only thing his brain could really think of was; _bloody hell he's gorgeous._


	2. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a few questions for Mycroft and Mycroft has a few for Greg.

By the time Sherlock had been hauled off to the hospital, his wings being set into two casts and his wounds were bandaged to prevent further damage, the sun was shining high overhead. John was sat alongside him and holding his hand, thumb caressing the bruised back of it while his eyes shone with his worry. He knew that his boyfriend was a magnet for trouble but normally there was some indication of brewing trouble. This had been completely unexpected.  
  
"Sherlock, do me a favour and be okay." He whispered, free hand running through his silvering locks to try and ground himself. His wings sagged behind him, shoulders dropping with their added weight as the tears began to fall. "I've nearly lost you too many times, please pull through this time."  
  
He and Sherlock had been dating for nearly six months now, but had known each other a couple years before then. They had met through a common friend, Mike, at university and John had become Sherlock's assistant. From performing experiments together to going out for a friendly drink their relationship blossomed into what it was today. That was why it pained John so much to see him hurt.  
  
Their arrival at the hospital was prompt and Sherlock was rushed out on the stretcher, John following as quickly as he could until he saw the medical team take him off to theatre for what he could tell was emergency surgery. Standing alone in the middle of the corridor he felt his heart shatter, any and all colour draining from his face.  
  
_"Please... Be okay."_  


* * *

  
"So you're a relative of the victim, Mr Holmes?" Greg asked while sat behind his desk at the station, watching the disinterest reflect on the taller man's face causing his own frown to deepen. "You mentioned him being your little brother, can you tell me anything about him?"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes has the mind of a scientist or a philosopher, detective. He is in that regard rather brilliant, though not quite to my own standard, but instead he insists upon wasting his time pursuing the fancies of a detective. I am surprised he hasn't burst into one of your crime scenes yet to be quite frank with you."  
  
So the individual was the type to investigate where he could get into some trouble, the possible amount of enemies growing the more that the Inspector thought about it. Trouble indeed.  
  
"Okay, so amateur detective, anything else?" He asked, staring down at his notepad and scribbling down notes to try and make up a quick profile.  
  
"Well, I would call him far from an amateur." There was an indignant undertone to Mycroft's words as he looked down his nose at Lestrade, lips curling into almost a snarl as a flare of protectiveness swelled in his chest. "Nonetheless, there isn't really much to tell you about him. He's a rather detached individual with a level of care towards Doctor John Watson and only him. " As he listed off basic facts for Greg to scribe, those deep blue eyes focused in on the Inspector and he felt a bubble of curiosity at what he could discover. "I hope you don't mind me asking but how long has it been since your left wing got damaged?"  
  
Greg's response was expected; the way he squared his shoulders and straightened his back, the feathers of his wings rustling as though he had been caught by surprise. His gaze hardened and his lips were pressed tight, debating as to just how he was going to reply to such a personal question. He was used to being asked, that wasn't what had shocked him, it was the sudden jump from the topic of the man in hospital to himself.  
  
"Uh, it must've been a good ten years ago now." He rubbed the back of his neck, dropping his pen onto the notepad that had a few notes by now. "Sometimes feels much longer."  
  
"Doesn't it bother you that you can no longer fly, Inspector? It must make work a little challenging if your culprits can take off." Mycroft shifted his weight, leaning against the single point of his umbrella against the vinyl floor. There was an air of casualness to the movement, one that was made in a subconscious effort to not rile the man up further despite the probing.  
  
"We have ways and means of dealin' with that kind of issue, Mr Holmes. Now, I wont waste your time any longer, I just ask you leave me contact details so that if we find anything on this attacker we can see if you want to press charges." Standing up and rounding his desk, Greg offered his hand out to shake as a gentleman should. Despite the ease in his voice and kind smile, boy what a smile it was Mycroft found himself subconsciously thinking, the man's body was tense as though he were fighting the urge to run. A touchy subject indeed then, Mycroft had found himself unable to read the emotions of others just as much as his younger brother.  
  
The thought of Sherlock caused a pool of worry to begin to form, the man's eyes suddenly seeming a lot more alert and the frequent glances at his watch made him appear time conscious. His little brother was probably fighting for his life again and he had been here asking stupid questions to the Detective Inspector of the Yard and what for? Why had he done it? Sure, the man interested him. Gregory Lestrade despite his flaws had a reputation for himself as one of the best in the trade, it was something Mycroft could admire. Dedication, loyalty, determination, all considerably good qualities to have. Should Sherlock pull through, he found himself almost hoping that his younger brother would get tangled in the investigations down here. He found that perhaps he wouldn't mind seeing the DI again, if only to be a stabilising presence in Sherlock's life he told himself firmly. It wasn't that the man's smile was rather attractive, or those deep dark eyes reminded him of a honey glazed chocolate he had seen when he was a child. It wasn't as though the flecks of black against an almost sea of greying hair were almost endearing.  
  
"Of course, Detective Inspector." He found himself saying on autopilot, eyes glued to that polite smile and he found himself smiling ever so faintly in return. "I'm sure when my brother wakes I will be in contact, no doubt you will want to question him." Out of his breast pocket came a little piece of card, a business card of sorts, with what details he was willing to provide. A phone number, an e-mail address, his name and that was all.  
  
"Thank you." Reading the details, Greg turned away from the man to return to his desk chair with a heavy sigh. He gave a wave of dismissal, politely smiling once again in the hopes it would persuade the man to leave; he could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his wings were shivering. Thankfully, he took the hint and soon Greg found himself alone once again to let his head drop into his waiting hands.  
  
Panic had begun to squirm through his body, blocking his throat and stopping him from talking. He had always been able to answer questions about his old injury, it never having really bothered him before. But, the memory of blinding pain caused him to twitch nervously, the shouts and jeers of many voices flooding his ears to mix with the rush of blood. His heart was racing, beating quicker and quicker and he parted his lips to try and breathe. Panic attacks didn't strike often, but when they did each one seemed so much more worse than the last.  
  
It took a total of one hour for him to return to normality, his salt and pepper hair dishevelled as he ran his fingers through it again and again to ground himself. Now, he could attempt to try and focus on his work; he was the DI of Scotland Yard for christ's sake! "Get a grip," he chastised himself, cursing how breathless his voice had sounded to his own ears. "There's a serial killer out there and a man in hospital, for god's sake focus."  
  
Despite himself Greg found himself staring at the notes he had made, handwriting almost unintelligible in his hurry. Beside it rested Mycroft's card, details clear as day against the white cut square. In the depths of his mind he could almost see the sunlight dancing across locks of copper, causing the illusion of flame against a backdrop of a cloudless blue sky. Stunning. The image caused him to smile a little more, sitting back in his chair and sighing as he could almost still feel those eyes examining him as thoroughly as they had been. The memory alone caused another shiver, this one much more pleasant than the last, and he picked up his phone. He debated his actions for the moment before deciding to send a text, to test the number he had been given.  
  
**Please, do let me know how Sherlock's doing when you see him. If there's anything I can do to help after he wakes up, don't hesitate to ask.**  
**Detective Inspector Lestrade**  
**Scotland Yard.**  
  
There was a delay in any kind of response, Greg almost worrying that he should have waited to try and make contact. However his phone buzzed about half an hour later much to his delight, quickly scanning the screen for the response.  
  
**Thank you, Inspector. In fact, there is something I would like to ask of you in regards to helping Sherlock. However, I feel it is only right to ask in person. Would you consider attending dinner with me this evening? - MH**  
  
Dinner? With Mycroft? Greg thought about it for a little while and sighed, shaking his head. He had said if he could help he would, but why couldn't this be said over the phone? Furthermore, the informal way Mycroft had signed off made him smile. Maybe he didn't have to worry about how posh the man was.  
  
**Sure, dinner sounds great. Whatever it is you need I'll do my best to help. See you then, Mr Holmes. - GL**  
  
This time only a few minutes passed.  
  
**Please, call me Mycroft. Should you be willing to help, I see no need for you to refer to me as one would my father. I will send a car to pick you up at seven from the yard, please don't be late. Good day, Inspector. -MH**


	3. A Favour To Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft asks of Greg a favour, Greg doesn't know if he can comply.

Seven rolled around relatively quickly, Greg focusing on his paperwork throughout the day. He had the murder that morning to report and the incident with Sherlock, so there was enough to cause the hours to just tick by. There was no more texts between him and Mycroft, no news as to how the man's younger brother was doing in the hospital. The lack of distraction allowed him to get some decent work done, only to drawn out of his own thoughts at the buzzing of his phone at 6:00 exactly.  
  
**Your car is here.**  
  
The sender was unknown, causing Greg to quirk a brow before packing up rather quickly. Who had gotten his number now? Presumably someone Mycroft knew. With a sigh, he picked up his bag and began to walk out, clocking out along the way and waving to Donovan who was looking out front in shock.  
  
"What's a car like that doing around here?" She asked in awe, mouth agape much to Greg's amusement.  
  
"That's my ride, I'll see you Monday." Greg called from the doorway, making a dash for the front door while relishing her squawk of disbelief. Shutting the door behind him he turned to see the sleek black car waiting for him and swallowed a small lump in his throat. God, anyone would think he was a member of the mafia.  
  
Before he could approach he noticed a rather leggy brunette glance up from the passenger side of the vehicle. Her lips twisted into a disapproving frown before she stood a little straighter and gestured for him to approach; the phone in her right hand being swiftly slipped into her pocket. Behind her two rather small brown wings flared out in irritation, surprisingly intimidating even to the DI.  
  
"Mr Lestrade, I believe my employer asked you to not be tardy." She chastised before opening the door for him to get in, clearing her throat rather impatiently as the DI rushed over with an apology on his lips.  
  
Sitting on the plush seating Greg cast his eyes to the blacked out windows, able to make out Sally eyeing up the car from the window. He resisted the urge to wave, knowing she wouldn't be able to see, and decided it was more favourable to turn and look at his apparent travel companion as she took the seat to his left.  
  
"So... is it worth my time asking where I'm going?"  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"No, I'm afraid not."  
  
Starting to feel rather uneasy, Greg folded his hands into his lap and decided to wait. Beside him the brunet had retrieved her phone from her pocket and was tapping away doing god knows what. So, while he had the time, he decided to wrack up what knowledge he had of this Mycroft Holmes.  
  
_Okay, so, Mycroft Holmes. Big brother. He wears a suit, I'm guessing that's his normal attire. Not cheap either, expensive brand I think. High earner then, got to get a decent paycheck. Fancy cars and frankly gorgeous what I'm going to assume is an assistant too. Just what kind of work is he in then? He was a cocky sod, but there was some kind of businessmen vibe from him. What was it he said? His authority weighs higher than me own? Wanker. I got posh bastard vibes from him the moment he showed up. Maybe he's involved in law?_  
  
_Right. So there's that. How long's it been? Only a few minutes, god knows where I'm gonna end up. Let's look at little brother to kill time. Sherlock Holmes. God, what is with these names? I'm guessing they're from an upper class family. Sherlock's probably the rebel, the one likely to not fit in with the rest. Curious temperament according to his brother and that Doctor; Watson, was it? Sounds like he gets into trouble often. Got to question him when he's in the clear._  
  
The car turned a sharp corner and he hissed a little in surprise, attempting to not slide onto the poor woman next to him who was uttering insults at the driver quietly. He offered her a smile, trying to be polite as he shifted his position to give her space, then cleared his throat to try and break the ice.  
  
"So, uh, don't suppose you get time off much?" He asked, raising his brows in a playful gesture that apparently landed on an icy stare.  
  
"No, not really." She rolled her eyes with a clearly fake smile, preferring silence than small talk as she looked down to her phone again.  
  
God, this journey was going to be tedious.

* * *

  
About twenty minutes passed without any chatter of any kind, just the gentle rumble of the car engine (well, it was more of a purr) and the occasional bit of London traffic. Lestrade had started to get rather uneasy, shuffling in his seat more so and trying to see where they were going. He had been so caught up in his worries that when the driver rather carelessly braked he nearly blanched and seemed to be in a somewhat shocked stupor. Peering out of the window, he could see the sublime sign of what appeared to be the Diogenes Club. Bloody hell.  
  
Greg had heard about this club once or twice before. An old coworker of his who had long retired had mentioned going there once a month; he could recall grand tales of the kind of men that walked into this club. Full of men that had no desire for the company of their fellows, some from shyness and many others from mysanthropy. They aren't averse to the comforts of plush chairs and the paper however. From what he could remember, no member is permitted to even acknowledge one another except from one particular room. Outside of this room talking was strictly forbidden and should one not be able to comply they would be removed... that's if the stories were true.

Suddenly, he felt rather under-dressed. This was a club known for its classiness, his uniform really wasn't that formal all things considered. Well, at least he wasn't in a shirt and jeans. Taking a deep breath, he caught the woman beside him staring expectantly and reluctantly hopped out of the car.  
  
"Don't suppose you'd..." he trailed off, watching her disinterest and rolling his eyes, "never mind."  
  
The car pulled away rather smoothly and Greg found his phone buzzing once again, pulling out the small device to check what had caused the screen to light up. Another text it would appear.  
  
**Show them this message at the front desk, do not say a word. You are to come straight to the Strangers Room, we have much to discuss, Inspector. - MH**  
  
Inhaling sharply and adjusting his jacket, Greg strode into the club with an air of false confidence. The moment he stepped into the brightly lit foyer he could feel eyes burning into him, scrutinising him for he was not a gentleman of the club's kind. Even so, he put on a polite smile and approached the first desk with purpose, presenting his phone to the receptionist and watching him arch a brow in surprise. Expecting an argument, Greg opened his mouth but a finger was held up in a bid for silence, a bell being rung from an unseen shelf beneath the desk. A young man approached rather quickly and offered a nod of acknowledgement, simply gesturing for Gregory to follow. He turned on his heel and walked, not checking to make sure the man was following close to his heel. It was easy to get lost in the club, he didn't want to waste time guiding the man when he had more important things to attend to.  
  
They walked for a good few minutes until the young man stopped abruptly and knocked upon the door, allowing it to slide open rather slowly so that the squeak of its hinges was the only sound that could be heard. That and the soft crackle of a fire.  
  
Walking in Greg found himself standing in the doorway with a look of astonishment on his face. The room was incredibly fancy, with two chairs in the centre of it before quite a grand fireplace made of a varnished mantle. Lining the walls were numerous oak bookcases, filled with encyclopedias of knowledge as well as any kind of book you could think of. The street light filtered in through two small windows near the top of the far wall, reflecting off of the delicate chandeliers prettily.  
  
Rising from his seat and placing his paper down on the small coffee table by his chair, Mycroft Holmes offered a polite smile and gestured for the door to be closed. When it was, he gave a soft sigh and gestured to the chair across from him. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I am glad you could make it."  
  
"Uh, glad to be here," Greg managed to get out, slowly approaching the free chair and looking around as he did so. _Bloody hell this is classy!_ "Mr Holmes-"  
  
"I believe I asked of you to regard me as Mycroft."  
  
"- Right, sorry, Mycroft... You know if we're going on first name basis I'd like you to call me Greg."  
  
The look on Mycroft's face was one of subtle surprise, a slight twitch of a brow and the twist of his mouth before he settled on a neutral expression and gave a nod.  
  
"I suppose that could be acceptable, but forgive me if I regard you by your title should I... forget." The odds of him forgetting the man's request wasn't likely, his memory was impeccable in fact. But, something about calling the man by his first name suggested a sort of friendliness he wasn't ready for, it deemed too intimate an option for the moment even if he had given his own name first. "Now, please take a seat. We can get down to business."  
  
There was a change in the man's tone, one that became slightly commanding and Lestrade wasn't sure he liked it. However, he decided to take a seat as he was told in order to avoid offending him. Folding one leg over the other and resting his hands in his lap, he gave an encouraging nod and a friendly smile. "Sure thing, how can I help you?"  
  
"I wanted to propose something should my brother recover from this recent incident." The way in which Mycroft spoke of his brother's circumstance was detached, almost icy, " as I have mentioned previously, he has a tendency to get into trouble. I was rather hoping you would be able to help me to alleviate the boredom that inevitably causes him to get into these messes."  
  
Shifting his weight to lean forward a little, Greg's brow furrowed and he tilted his head while awaiting an explanation. "Alleviate his boredom how?"  
  
"He will undoubtedly do this at some point of his own accord, but I was hoping you could... I don't know, give him a case or something to work on?"  
  
"I don't think you realise I'm not allowed to do that. Your brother isn't trained to be on a crime scene, there's totally no way!" Greg objected, grimacing at the displeasure that flashed in Mycroft's eyes. Don't look at me like that! "I could lose my job."  
  
"What if I could assure you don't? I wasn't planning on you doing this without any kind of incentive, Detective-"  
  
"Greg."  
  
"-I was in fact hoping that I could offer you some kind of compensation for your troubles." With that, Mycroft handed over a slip of paper and offered the faintest of smiles.  
  
Eyeing the number on the paper the Inspector gaped, it taking a few moments to register before side-eyeing the man across from him. That was a big... big number. "You really think you can stop me from getting fired?"  
"I happen to know your bosses, I believe I can make some kind of arrangement. I just need you to keep an eye on my brother for a while until a suitable replacement can be found."  
  
"... I'll think about it. But if I do it it ain't for the money, so you can forget that."  
  
That... wasn't a response Mycroft had anticipated. He tilted his head, looking at the silver-haired man quizzically. Money was a way in which the world worked. He understood the crunching of numbers and the greed of man; he specialised in that knowledge in fact. So, why wasn't this man taking the incentive?  
  
"I'll give it a couple days and let you know, how does that sound?"  
  
"That does sound acceptable... Gregory."  
  
_Oh god, I haven't heard my full name said like that in so long._ Greg found himself thinking, averting his eyes and chewing the inside of his cheek with a smile. _Sounds kinda nice._ "Now then, let's have some grub, eh?"

* * *

  
Leaving the Diogenes Club with higher spirits than he entered, Gregory took the scenic route to his flat that night. The air was crisp and clean, his mind buzzing with the deal he could strike with the man. Damn it, he still had to find out just what Mycroft did for work! He found himself chuckling, shoving his hands in his pocket and stopping under a street lamp for a moment to process everything.  
  
That's when he heard it, a piercing scream which rebounded off of the numerous buildings towering overhead. It was close, too close, and immediately Greg took off towards the sound and found himself sliding into a backward alley near a bunch of communal bins. There, he saw a figure (details veiled by the darkness of the night) who began to flee, leaving a woman sobbing and screaming on the floor. At first, Greg couldn't make out why she was screaming, that was until he noticed a long, silver wing a few feet in front of the woman; blood staining the feathers a dark crimson. 


	4. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tries to help the victim of the attack but he is haunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in chapter! To make up for it, the next one's gonna be extra long!
> 
> Thank you to all who have kudo'd and commented and bookmarked! I hope you enjoy.

"Get away from me... get away!" 

The haunting screams of the woman on the floor made Greg's blood run cold as he ran over to her, kneeling beside her and allowing his face to be seen in the faded street lights. His face was pale as he examined her, blood staining her blouse and pooling on the floor beneath her. The serrated flesh showed that she had been attacked with a rather blunt blade of some sort, the skin most likely extremely painful. 

"Ma'am," he kept his voice level, meeting her eyes and doing his best to remain calm. "Ma'am, I'm a police officer. I need you to take some deep breaths for me; can you do that for me?" 

The sound of ripping bounced off the walls of the alley as Greg tore off the sleeve of his shirt.  It wasn't ideal but for now it would serve as an acceptable bandage. That's strange, when had he taken off his coat? It lay a few feet over, covering the separated wing which twitched uselessly. Tying the bandage around the bleeding appendage he flinched, the poor woman unable to stop her sharp cries of agony. Glancing around he saw they were completely alone, no one having left their flats nearby to see what the fuss was. Quickly he grabbed his phone and rang the first emergency number he had. Sally. 

_"Donovan here."_

"I've got a civilian down who needs emergency medical treatment." Greg hissed down the phone, chest starting to feel a little tight. Not now, he thought, not now! Swiftly he told her his location and hung up, turning back to the squirming woman who looked as though she were suffocating in her panic. "Hey now, can you tell me your name?" He asked in a softer tone, having a hand on her shoulder as he adjusted the makeshift bandage and tightened it. The way she whimpered drove daggers into his chest repetitively. 

"C-Claire," she sobbed as her body trembled with restraint, the urge to scream and writhe almost too much. The little lump of flesh where her wing had been attached moved uselessly as though she were moving it, though it only caused her pain to skyrocket and she gripped the hand on her shoulder. "Make it stop. Please, make it stop!"

"Claire, I need you to take in deep breaths. In; One, two, three. Out; One, two, three. Can you do that?" He repeated himself, squeezing her hand in assurance as the other tried to put pressure on the wound. The resulting squeal made him tense, panic continuing to rise and the blood began to rush in his ears.

This was familiar, too familiar for his liking. 

Greg's eyes began to gloss over, becoming glassy as his hands slowed to a perfect stop. Sluggishly he blinked and swallowed the lump in his throat. Blood began to rush, filling his ears and blocking out most of Claire's screaming. Heart pounding and breathing suddenly a lot faster he let out a choked sound.

_The flash of steel in the city lights caught his eye. There was the sound of a scuffle, haunting laughter rumbling all around him. His wings were pinned, unable to move and they burned. Oh god how they burned. It started at the tip of his feathers and travelled up, searing, scorching the delicate skin beneath. The sound of his own shouts echoed, when had he started shouting? He couldn't concentrate on the words, just the agonising pain._

**_Look at the little coppa', fellas._ **

**_Not so tough without your boss, are ya'?_ **

**_Fuckin' bitch. He ain't gonna fuck with us again, are ya'?_ **

_Oh god, no! He was squirming, trying to break free. He was going to die here, wasn't he? Why hadn't he checked if his radio had battery before he'd gone on patrol and he should've known better than trying this alone. Why hadn't he listened?!_

_He could see the steel again and his heart practically stopped, eyes wide as it shifted behind him. He felt the sharp edge of the knife, the slice of flesh, and he screamed. He almost missed something in the background... wait, was that?_

"Lestrade, get a grip!" 

The voice was unrecognisable as arms reached beneath Greg's biceps, grabbing him and firmly pulling him away from Claire. He was unceremoniously shoved away from the victim in order to allow the medical team to take over. When had they shown up?

Turns out the voice had been Sally's. The Constable was frowning at him and was trembling with what looked like anger. 

"What the hell were you doing?! You nearly let her bleed out, Lestrade. She could be dead right now!" She growled at him, disappointment written all over her face.

"I-," his voice cracked and he raised a hand to cover his mouth. He felt ready to vomit. 

"You've got to go to the station for questioning," she explained coldly, standing straight and taking charge. She'd never seen Greg look so frightened in her entire career. "C'mon, I'll give you a lift."

* * *

* * *

Greg sat in the interrogation room and let his head roll forward into his waiting hands. It had been explained to him. He had frozen on the spot, shut up and had nearly let the woman bleed out. The guilt was immense. He had lost his grip on reality and had nearly let a woman die, her blood still coating his hands. 

He recalled sitting in Sally's car on the way to the station, a paper bag being given to him as he threw up. Sally's look of concern he had to ignore, it only adding to his shame. Countless murder cases hadn't had the same effect on him. It was uncharacteristic. 

The door opened and Sally walked in, the case file in hand that must have only just been written up. She threw it onto the table and sat opposite Greg, watching him carefully. 

"Alright boss, you know the drill. Where've you been, how'd you find the victim?" What the hell were you thinking was the unspoken question, one that burned in her eyes.

"I was having dinner with a friend," he answered truthfully, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair while his wings spasmed nervously. "I'd just started walking home when I heard a scream. By the time I got to the victim I saw a figure running off, hooded. Was about six foot, bulky. Huge wings, never seen a wingspan like it." 

"Right..." There was a quiver to her voice betraying disbelief and Greg's fist clenched.

"C'mon, Sal. You know I'd not lie-"

"Then what the hell happened, Greg?" She snapped, rising to her feet and glaring down at him. "You screwed up big this time. A woman nearly died! You stopped helping her and I want to know why! Now!"

As her voice raised to a shout Greg sat back and looked at her in shock, waiting for her to breathe and not look ready to strangle him. He swallowed, eyes lowering to the tabless while his fingers drummed nervously. 

"I'll tell you, Sal. You've gotta sit down though, it ain't exactly a five minute story."


	5. A Glimpse Into The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tells the tale of how he became flightless, Sally makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are! Currently the longest chapter in this story depicting how Greg lost his ability to fly! A cookie to anyone who understands any kind of reference made in this chapter, I wont give any clues. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the read! Please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment as to what you think! 
> 
> WARNING: DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER.

London was always busy no matter what time of day or night it was. There was always the murmur of the general public in the background serving as a sort of white noise, occasionally to be accompanied by the sounds of a dog's bark or some rodent scampering in a nearby alley. Plumes of smoke poured out of the clubs and beer was sloshed over the pavement mixed with the odd bit of vomit or cigarette ash. At least there was the soft medley of music that leaked from one pub to the next to take ones mind off of the mess.  
  
Greg found that good old London had plenty of its own charm and character. In fact he rather enjoyed wandering the streets on patrol. He was often seen nipping eagerly at the heels of his partner; ever since he'd started working with the Met he'd not had a choice but to be assigned one. A partner, more like a babysitter, someone to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn't get into any trouble with the folks he potentially knew in the area.  
Trouble, as it were, was a word that followed him around like a shadow. Wherever Gregory Lestrade went, bad luck and trouble seemed to follow.  
  
"C'mon Matt, I'll only be five, no, ten minutes tops! Just a nip round to the flat to grab something, I'm not gonna be long!" He flashed his most charming grin, nudging the older man and choosing to ignore the scowl aimed in his direction. "I'll even grab you a pint when we're done here!"  
  
" _Constable_ Lestrade, unlike you I have a wife and children to attend to when we are done here. Now, kindly shut up and keep an eye out for trouble." Matt side-eyed the shorter man and took in his excited expression, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Stop staring, you know it irritates me."  
  
"Misery guts."  
  
Ignoring the grouchiness of his patrol partner Greg turned away and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets with a shrug; behind him his wings were fluttering, betraying his impatience. God, he could use a beer right now. That or a cigarette, he wasn't fussy. With his youth came boredom at the lack of prospective action, simple waiting around for something to happen only causing the balls of his feet to ache and his wings itch to take flight. The only possible excitement he could even hope for was a glimpse at some of his old friends from before he joined the force, knowing trouble tailed them just as it did him. But, he'd learned quickly that they wouldn't acknowledge him anymore or give him the benefit of their trouble making ways. They had stopped the moment he'd switched sides.  
  
It was an incredibly long story how Greg had gone from being one of the biggest delinquents on the block to a Constable of the law. The technicalities were something he didn't really want to think about too often, keeping the details blurred and just accepting the fact he was here on the opposite side to what he used to be. He used to run around these streets, jumping over chain fences, speeding down the roads on his bike, the wind beneath his wings and the Met nipping at his heels. He recalled the days of pub crawls, knife fights, too many nights in an overnight cell with the DI looking at him in disappointment.  
  
Too many times he'd seen that look, one that told him without any words he could do better. He was better.  
  
Shaking his head to snap out of his trail of thought his attention was drawn away by the sound of shouting. Looking up he noticed a familiar face holding what appeared to be a knife and his brows narrowed. He didn't hear Matt beside him order him to wait for back-up, his feet beginning to carry him towards the alleyway he'd seen the man duck into.  
  
That man was Alec, he could recall, Scudder was his surname and what he had been referred to. A lad from Wiltshire who'd been working for some fancy bloke to support him and his brother. The suit had sacked him just before Greg had joined the force, last thing he heard he was sucking it up to another bloke with a family with two sons. Just making do, as they all had been back then. He'd no idea what had happened to the others, maybe now was the chance to find out.  
  
"Lestrade, wait-!" Matt called as the man jogged towards the alleyway, frowning and immediately contacting the others on patrol to circle the area.  
  
"Scudder?" The Constable rounded the corner into the alleyway and saw that the man in question was waiting for him at the end of the alleyway. The glint of silver in the light made him tense, knowing that this was probably stupidly dangerous. But, he also knew that somebody could very well get hurt if he didn't step in. "Scudder, c'mon now. Put down the knife."  
  
Like that the man took off running and Greg grimaced at the look that had been thrown his way. Disgust, betrayal, it drove in deeper than any blade. His footsteps fell heavy on the pavement as he ran after him, trying not to lose sight of the man as he chased him through the streets. In the back of his mind Greg knew the route he was being taken but didn't question it, trusting his instincts to keep up. He hopped over the chain-link fence and grunted as he landed, ankle flaring in pain as he continued to run. He rounded one last corner before noticing that he was at the entrance to an industrial estate. Taking one deep breath, he pushed forward and ran in.  
  
Alec was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Alec?" He called, turning around and frowning until something dropped on him from above. Hard. With a grunt he lost his balance and slumped against the nearest wall, sliding down to the floor as his consciousness wavered. There was the sound of a scuffle, haunting laughter rumbling around him. Nausea made itself known within a few minutes and he retched, glancing up to see Scudder looking more than terrified. Beside him were four more men.  
  
A hand grasped his dark brown hair and tugged, forcing him to look into the eye of one of the men. This man had hidden his face mostly by a balaclava of sorts, his piercing green eyes staring through Greg as though he weren't there.   
  
"Well well, would you look at this." He sneered, grip tightening substantially. "Look at the little coppa', fellas."  
  
A boot slammed down on his left wing and he let out a shout of pain, feeling the delicate bone structure crunch beneath it. Tears pricked at his eyes and he squirmed, trying to get away from it though it only made the pain worse. "Fuck! Let.. Let me go!"  
  
There was the sound of a lighter being flicked on and Greg froze, eyes wide as the guy holding him down held it menacingly close to his face. His vision focused in on the orange flame, body trembling as though his blood had turned to ice. He watched, unable to do anything, as the lighter was lowered to the tip of one of his wings. They began to burn, oh god how it burned. Feathers went up in flame immediately and the sensitive skin beneath was scorched with it. The sound of Greg's agonised shouting echoed around the complex, not quite reaching his own ears as he writhed beneath him.  
  
"Please! I'll do anythin'! Let me go!"  
  
There was a laugh, mocking him in his pain. It was cruel, cold, the look of the man calculating before he stomped on the other wing and let the first burn. His hand was still buried in Greg's hair, forcing him to remain in place while Alec watched on miserably. "Not so tough without your boss, are ya'? Mm Lestrade?"  
  
The second wing was set alight and Gregory screamed. He was trapped here, burning, fear not even beginning to describe it as he grasped at the wrist of the man holding him there and tried to tug himself free. He couldn't think to kick out, to fight, still incredibly dizzy from the blow to his head. The only thoughts going through his head was that he had to get out. He was going to die here if he didn't.  
  
"Fuckin' bitch," another man spat at him, aiming a smarting blow to his cheek and relishing in the pained grunt that had slipped out amidst the screams. "Ain't gonna fuck with us again, are ya'?"  
  
"I don't even know who you are!" Scalding tears streaked down Greg's cheek. When had he started to cry? "Please, let me go-!" He was squirming, attempting to break free as the hand in his hair shifted to pick him up by the neck. His attackers didn't give a damn about the fire lighting up his wings, just watching in sadistic glee. The Constable sobbed before the hand tightened around his throat and he yelped, unable to stop himself from gritting his teeth and fighting more pained crying.  
  
"Come on now, Lestrade. We ain't done yet, I wanna see you pass out only to wake up again in complete _fucking_ agony. Understand?"  
  
Greg was pulled from the wall and held up in the air, wings flailing uselessly as the flames burned on. He could hear movement behind him and his eyes widened, pleas falling onto deaf ears as he realised just what they were about to do. He could catch the glint of steel in the reflection of Alec's eyes who was watching in horror, his heart practically stopping as he knew his fate. He could feel the sharp edge of the knife, the slice of flesh, and once more he released a screech. God, the pain. He'd not known anything like it in his life!  
  
"You'll never fly again, y'here me?" The words were whispered into his ear from behind, voice familiar yet so so distant. There was some more words after but Greg slumped in the arms holding him, rapidly losing consciousness.  
  
_I wanna see you pass out only to wake up again in complete fucking agony._  
  
_We ain't done yet._  
  
_Lestrade._  
  
_Lestrade._  
  
_Lestrade._

_Greg, I'm sorry...!_  
  
Greg awoke with a start and shouted, finding himself hardly able to move as his body felt stiff and numb. He was in darkness, the moon filtering in through the window to his left and he began to tremble. Where was he? Suddenly, the door opened and a woman rushed in, gasping and calling for a doctor to come and see quickly. So, he was in a hospital of some kind. How had he got here?  
  
"Mr Lestrade, you are a very lucky man." The doctor said as he rushed in, "we thought you weren't going to pull through for a moment there. Good to have you with us, my name is-"  
  
"M' w'ngs..."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"My...M'wings." Greg gasped, trying to get a look but only seeing bandages instead. Fear crept through him as he looked from the doctor to the nurse who'd walked in, seeing the concerned looks before grimacing. "That... that bad, huh?" He whimpered a little, the pain stinging and he felt tears bubble up.  
  
"Nurse, I think his painkiller has started to wear off... Please, if you would. I will contact his emergency contact and see what we can do."  
  
Direct avoidance of the implied question confirmed Lestrade's fears and he let his head fall back onto the pillow to sob. His life was meant to be getting better, not worse. Nowhere near as worse as it had. Arthur had promised him. Arthur had promised everything would be better. It was meant to be, wasn't it? The sound of the doctor on the phone outside of his room was barely audible but Greg clung onto it for dear life. He knew who his emergency contact was.  
  
"Arthur Woods? Yes, yes this is Doctor Oxton. Mr Lestrade has woken, sir. I understand you are busy, Detective Inspector, but perhaps you should come in at your earliest convenience-" A pause, "you're on your way? Perfect. I'm sure he will be glad to see you."  
  
At that, Greg allowed his eyes to close and the tears to flow. Arthur Woods, his boss, the man who'd gotten him on the straight and narrow, hadn't left him in his time of need. He knew he'd be alright, so long as he had the support of the man in question. For Arthur, he'd do just about anything. Even recover from something like this.

* * *

  
"Course, that isn't how it worked." Greg sighed as he looked at Sally across the table, swallowing a little at the horror on her face. "C'mon now, Sal. Don't give me that, I'm fine. It's fine."  
  
"I-," her voice cracked and she coughed to clear her throat, "I think you should take some time off, sir. I'm assuming you had therapy for this... incident?"  
  
"Yea', was made to go in and was escorted to each session. It was a dark time in my life, Sal, but I met my wife shortly after and things... well, took off from there. Even if I couldn't fly anymore."  
  
Sally rose from her seat and removed the case file from the table, looking down at Greg with sympathy that he just despised. He hated this, people finding out, people judging him for what had happened. People thinking him incapable. "I'm not having you work this case. It's clearly a triggering sort and we need you at the best capacity in the future... In fact I'm going to bring it up to the big boss that you have some time off. He's probably already got the paperwork ready, you really do need a break."  
"Sal-"  
  
"Don't 'Sal' me, sir. This is for your own good... I will be back shortly with your belongings so you can leave. I'll be in touch to see how things are in about a weeks time."


	6. Meeting Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time without his life being in danger. Sherlock and Mycroft have a little chat.

Dismissed. That was all he needed. There was a serial killer on the loose and he was bloody dismissed from the Met for an undisclosed period of time. Not only that, he'd been told it was a wise idea to attend counselling before he could even think about returning to his job. In his heart of hearts Greg knew this was probably wise but he didn't have to like this treatment. He may as well have been sacked.

As he walked out with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder and a few folders were clasped firmly in his arms his phone began to buzz away in his pocket. He managed to get to his car and put the collected items in the boot before finally pulling his phone out, eyes lighting up at the message and more importantly the sender.

**Sherlock has woken, Inspector. I suppose you will be joining us? - MH**

Damn it, Greg had hoped Mycroft had gotten over using his title. Right now the last thing he wanted to be called was Inspector, considering he wasn't seen as fit for his role. It wasn't the first time his past had caught up with him and caused something to happen, but this by far was the worst. He could handle being judged by his coworkers who knew, he could handle always being the underdog, but being outright dismissed had hurt his pride more than anything. 

**Sure thing, I'll head over now. Will see you there. -GL**

There was no reply as Greg opened the door and sat in his car for a moment, allowing his frustration to explode into a single punch against the steering wheel. Slamming the door shut he clipped himself in and turned the key, listening to the car rumble to life and sighing. Mycroft's was so much quieter, much smoother on the roads of London. With a heavy heart and the makings of a smarting headache, he set out towards the hospital in which Sherlock was being kept. It was as though he were running on autopilot, the concerns about rent, food and the like echoing in the depths of his mind but not daring come to the forefront. 

About twenty minutes later he was walking through the corridor of St Bartholomew's hospital (Barts for short), flashing his badge at the occasional nurse who dared to interject he be there. It was only when he saw Mycroft standing outside of Sherlock's room he stopped, straightening his back and adjusting his jacket as though that would make him appear much more composed than he felt. He saw as Mycroft noticed him and turned to greet him, an unreadable expression all over his face. Well, unreadable to most.

"Is everything alright, Inspector?" Mycroft asked shortly, lips curved into a frown as he arched a brow. It was apparent from the tension held in the shorter man's shoulders something was wrong, even if his expression masked it relatively well. Better than most men he would wager.

"Yea' not bad," Greg lied, rubbing the back of his neck before tossing his head in the direction of the closed door. "Sunshine awake? Let's go say hello."

Inside the room the pair could hear a lot of frustrated talking. There was two female voices and one male. Upon opening the door Greg and Mycroft were met with a sight and the latter released a sigh of exasperation.

"Out of bed already, brother mine?" 

The young man looked at Mycroft in distaste and scoffed, rolling his eyes before continuing to strip out of the hospital gown he had been put in while the nurses looked away and begged him to stay. 

"Too much to do, Mycroft. It's dull here."

As if that were reason enough Mycroft nodded with a thoughtful hum, wandering over to the other man and gesturing to Greg. "An Inspector of Scotland Yard is here to speak with you about the attack. Do be polite, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes turned to eye Greg cautiously, uncaring about his nearly nude state. His skin was littered with purple bruises and numerous gashes that had been stitched. His stare was intense, as though he were examining Greg from beneath a microscope. Little did he know he was under intense investigation.

"Inspector is hardly suitable now you have been put on unpaid leave. Would you rather I call you by name... Graham?"

Greg stared at Sherlock with wide eyes, mouth slightly open as he tried to find the words to say. "Uh... it's Greg," he finally mumbled with a sheepish expression, ignoring Mycroft's eyes on him. "Greg Lestrade."

"Lestrade. Right. I'm assuming you have questions, yes? Well I refuse to answer until we are out of this hospital. It's dull here, too many idiots."

Mycroft had slipped to the sidelines and discussed things with the nurses, making arrangements for Sherlock's discharge. Meanwhile, Greg simply offered an amazed look and rubbed the back of his neck. "How did you...?"

"Just a few simplistic deductions. Mycroft must be getting slow if he didn't notice, or, better yet, he's getting," there was a shudder, "sentimental about your feelings."

"I can hear you, Sherlock." Mycroft added from across the room, tone exceptionally patient with the younger man even if his feathers appeared borderline ruffled. 

"Good to know age is not crippling you yet, brother. How's the diet?" Sherlock replied swiftly, grabbing some spare clothes from a bag Mycroft must have dropped off the night before. He had no apparent care for neither his nudity or the discomfort which made Greg turn away politely.

"Fine." Mycroft's tone became slightly clipped, irritation working its way into his stare as he watched his brother like a hawk. "Doctor Watson will be awaiting your arrival at... the dismal place you call a flat. Shall I call a car to take us?"

At the mention of John Sherlock paused, an unreadable expression on his face before he gave a hurried nod and rushed to get ready. Collecting the blue scarf that had been with his things he wrapped it around his bruised neck, adjusting his attire a couple times before offering a false smile. "How do I look?"

"Abysmal. You're lucky to be walking out of here," Greg commented before chuckling at the shocked appearance of both brothers. Had they forgotten he was there? "What about me? I have questions like you so cleverly figured out."

"221b Bakers Street is my address, Lestrade. We can rendezvous there-"

"Inspector Lestrade will be riding with us, Sherlock." Mycroft corrected, causing both men to turn to him next. Sherlock had that intense stare again but the elder Holmes brother ignored it in favour of turning to Greg. "Do you oppose?"

"I did drive over here, I don't mind heading over to Bakers Street. Saves me dropping back here to grab the car when I'm done," even if it would give him something to do he added mentally. In fact he was so caught up in his own misery and trying to internalise it he missed the flash of something in Mycroft's eye. "It's no problem. Shall we?"

The trio headed to the main desk where Mycroft helped fill out the required forms for Sherlock's discharge; the latter complaining about the wait the entire time while Greg watched on like a spectator.

The Holmes brothers certainly weren't like Greg and his own. There was an air of sophistication to them, of regality almost. It was clear both men were educated and certainly intelligent, but beyond that it was hard to see. Sherlock appeared to have no capacity for other people's emotions and Mycroft seemed... well, guarded. He had yet to see the man with his icy walls down, maybe he would never see. 

Once outside the group separated, Greg giving Mycroft's car a friendly toot on his horn before driving ahead to Bakers Street. 

* * *

"You like this Lestrade, don't you?"

Mycroft started a little at the question and side-eyed his brother with a frown, careful in how he replied. "I believe the Inspector is an intelligent man. There are certain benefits to being in a, dare I say, friendly relationship with a man like him."

"Except you don't make friends, Mycroft. This world is full of goldfish, isn't that what you say?"

"Well... it is."

"Then have you finally found yourself one?" Sherlock arched a brow and smirked as a subtle shift in Mycroft's eyes betrayed him. Got you. 

"Sherlock, I have no need for a companion. We have discussed this. I'm not lonely."

"And I have asked you how would you know? You have yet to give any answer, satisfactory or not." 

Silence emanated between them and Mycroft turned to look out of the tinted window with a sigh. This conversation was one they had partook in since Sherlock and John Watson had become close. Mycroft was a busy man with an erratic schedule that didn't allow for friends. He was, for all intents and purposes, married to his work and it was indeed a jealous spouse. He had started working diligently from the age of twenty, he had yet to find a connection with another human as his brother had. Perhaps it was true this relationship with Greg, no matter how formal, was the closest he had come to having a friend since he was a child. It didn't mean he had to start celebrating. 

Mycroft Holmes wasn't a sentimental man, especially not about his perhaps only potential friend. Caring was never an advantage. 

* * *

As they pulled up to Bakers Street Greg's car could be seen out front, the driver mysteriously missing. There was John's figure in the window watching, waiting, for the moment Sherlock stepped out of the car. The moment he did the figure vanished, preceding the flinging open of the black front door and the doctor rushing forward to greet his partner. 

"You're late," John scolded as he stopped just in front of Sherlock, eyes lighting up and crinkling in the corners with his smile. 

There was a rumble of a chuckle as Sherlock opened his arms and allowed John to slot himself between them, "where's the fun in being on time? That's predictable, you know." 

"Git."

Greg lingered in the doorway with a mug pressed between his hands. John had greeted him kindly when he rang the doorbell, thanking him for helping save Sherlock. He liked John, he seemed like a guy with his head screwed on right. 'You can pay me back with a pint sometime' he had joked, exchanging numbers with the man to keep in touch. Who knows, they may actually meet up someday outside of Sherlock's near death.

"As much as this display is, to most, rather sweet, might I suggest we head inside?" Mycroft cleared his throat while standing behind the pair, eyes averted from the display of affection. His wings shifted, betraying his discomfort st the sight while he busied himself ushering them inside. 

"Yea'," Greg decided to add helpfully as he let John and Sherlock lead the way back upstairs, "you owe me some q-and-a time, c'mon sunshine."

 


	7. Questions and a Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finally gets to ask Sherlock what happened and John has a warning for him.

"So, Gavin-"  
  
"It's... It's Greg, Sherlock."  
  
"Right, Greg, you said you have questions."  
  
Greg was sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the small flat, eyes flitting around at the chaos surrounding him. In the kitchen he could spot chemistry equipment, along with what he hoped were fake body parts. The window was open, the fresh breeze taking out the smell of something that had been burnt, petri-dishes lining the window-sill with god knows what inside. He made a mental note to enquire about them later.  
  
A fresh mug of tea was offered to him from a kind old lady he'd learned was called Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's landlady (and not housekeeper she had insisted on telling him). Smiling politely he placed it down by the leg of his chair, glancing at Sherlock and John who were sat in diagonal positions to where he was to form a kind of triangle. Mycroft was lingering by the door, seemingly out of place as neither man paid any attention to him.   
  
"Questions regarding your attack, yes." He confirmed, watching the tension fill John's shoulders and make him sit that little bit more rigidly. "You gave us lot a bloody good fright dropping in from nowhere."   
  
Sherlock placed his fingers under his chin, seemingly staring into nothing. He made no move to speak but his wings twitched beneath their bandages, pain reflecting in the depths of his eyes but otherwise leaving no indication. He seemed to be deep in thought, the air suddenly hanging heavy and somewhat awkwardly between the small group.  
  
"If you need anything, boys, you know where everything is," Mrs Hudson whispered as though not to disturb the brooding man, "do show the Inspector if he needs anything." With that, she gave a wave and slipped out of the door to the safety of her own flat.  
  
Sucking in a breath between his teeth, Greg sat a little higher in his seat and glanced from Sherlock to John to Mycroft. The question hung in the air; does he always do this? The lack of reaction from the other two told him this was at least something normal. "So, basic questions first. What do you recall from that day?"  
  
As though his voice had forced Sherlock out of a deep thought he gave a disapproving look, standing up and approaching the mantle to run his fingers along its surface. His eyes stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging above it, glancing to areas over his shoulders and in front of him.   
  
"He does this sometimes," John finally spoke up, deciding to explain so the man wasn't so confused. "Sometimes he needs to get his thoughts in the right order, they come a little too fast."  
  
"Well, how long can that take?"  
  
"Anywhere between five minutes to a couple hours," Mycroft cut in, fiddling with the handle of his umbrella and frowning at his younger brother. "I would have hoped he had spent his time in hospital doing this so the process would be more straight forward."  
  
"Do shut up," came the annoyed reply.   
  
With that John rose to his feet and gestured for Greg to follow with an apologetic smile, leading him to the kitchen so they could talk quietly between them. "I do hope you've got nowhere to be anytime soon."  
  
Sure, his flat where he'd spend the night watching crap telly and feeling sorry for himself.   
  
"Nowhere important, this is more interesting than anything else." Greg assured him, sipping from his mug and looking at the mess on the kitchen table. "So what's all this then?" He placed the cup down and bent over to peek at one of the containers that seemed to have a green... _thing_ inside. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was and something told him he didn't want to.  
  
"One of Sherlock's experiments," he explained with an understanding grin, "it's a little odd but you'll get used to it. Took me months to get used to not knowing what I'd come home to find."   
  
John's expression was one of adoration as he glanced back into the living room where Sherlock and Mycroft were hissing at each other. His lips curved into a half smile, eyes glittering fondly. Dark circles around his eyes told a story on their own, sleepless nights and worries unending. Greg felt rather sorry for him.  
  
"What's the story here then?" He asked while his lips curled into a smirk, noticing the colour of John's cheeks turn to a pink. "Do you mind if I ask how long you've...?"  
  
"Nearly six months. Six months in a couple days actually." John ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "We met at uni and became flatmates after the first year, things sort of took off from there."  
  
Nodding, Greg twisted himself to watch as Mycroft pointed something out on Sherlock and earned an annoyed swat of a hand as result. He grinned a little, watching the two brothers squabble between themselves for a good ten minutes. Mycroft had just ducked to avoid another irritated swat when he had glanced into the kitchen. His and Greg's eyes locked and he gave a faint smile before approaching to avoid his younger brother's temper.   
  
"I do believe Sherlock will be ready for your questioning, Inspector." He hummed, expression returning to that stoic mask once again. "Are you ready?"  
  
"As I'll ever be," Greg gave a huff of laughter, finding the way Sherlock glared in the background amusing to say the least. "Lead the way, sunshine."  
  
As the pair turned their backs John raised a brow, lips curling into a frown. He hadn't just seen the way they looked at each other, had he? The way Mycroft actually having _smiled_? _At_ somebody? Who _wasn't_ in peril?   
  


* * *

  
They sat back in their original spots, John and Sherlock in their chairs and Greg in his own with Mycroft in the doorway. The gentle hum of the kettle was in the background as Mrs Hudson had rejoined them, dropping off the post that had arrived as she did.   
  
"Just to repeat what you've said, Sherlock." Greg opened, looking through the notes he had rushed to take amongst the man's rambling. "You were heading after a criminal you'd been chasing-"  
  
"By the name of Alfred Phillips."  
  
"-Right, Alfred Phillips. You know you should have contacted the police before chasing anyone." The resulting scoff from Sherlock went ignored. "Anyways, you chased after a suspect in the hopes of apprehending him. You hadn't anticipated that he wasn't the only criminal in the area. Specifically, you hadn't anticipated criminals who knew you personally."  
  
Although relieved that Sherlock wasn't directly linked to the recent cases, he was almost disappointed that he couldn't investigate further. The culprits were already known.   
  
"Drug dealers," Mycroft commented from behind the D.I, ignoring the way both John and Sherlock glowered at him. "Drug dealers that Sherlock hadn't payed off entirely, or had been particularly rude."   
  
"Idiots, the lot of them." Sherlock grumbled before sighing and glancing at his bandaged wings. "I do believe the damage they have done can be recovered from, however. I should be able to fly in a month or two."  
  
"You were cornered and attacked by five men you claimed, losing the suspect in the process. You seem more distressed about that than the nature of your own injuries." Greg felt a little buzz of irritation, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you know how lucky you were?"   
  
Sherlock fell silent and simply looked away, the air once again growing thick with awkwardness. Nobody met each other's eyes as Greg glared at the floor. He hadn't meant to sound so bitter, had he?   
  
"Well, I think I've got all I need for now." He rose to his feet and nodded to John, "you've got my number if anything else goes wrong, yea'? Plus you owe me that pint." Offering a smile he tried to lighten the mood. "You, Sherlock, I might have a few files to look over. Something to keep you busy while you're grounded, for the want of a better phrase."   
  
The corner of Sherlock's lip turned up and he nodded, "I'll be in touch, Lestrade."  
  


* * *

  
Mycroft had left rather quickly after a private phone call, Greg soon following his footsteps. The latter ruffled his own hair and turned up his coat collar against the chilly London wind and walked to his car, only stopping when he heard a call of his name. Glancing up he saw John standing in the doorway and gave a smile, motioning for the man to come over.  
  
"John, what can I do you for?"  
  
"I wanted to apologise on Sherlock's behalf. Sometimes he has no tact," John gave a small smile of his own, patting the man's shoulder in consolation. "I heard he outed you about being put on leave, that can't be easy."  
  
The answering shrug provided no confidence.  
  
"But that wasn't just it, I wanted to talk to you about Mycroft." John shuffled on the spot and adjusted his jumper, "you do know he's not exactly like the normal bloke, neither Holmes lad is." He noticed the almost guilty expression on Greg's face and smirked, "I also notice how you two look at each other."  
  
"Look at each other, John?"  
  
"Mycroft's got the nickname the Ice Man. He doesn't act friendly with anyone. Ever."  
  
The Ice Man? That seemed fitting to the persona Greg had met where Sherlock had fallen. The cold stare, the sarcastic mannerism, the arrogance that made him want to punch him. But, there was a certain delicate nature to that version of the man he'd gotten to know. Still, Greg recalled seeing the frankly gorgeous aura around him. A man of authority, one who commanded respect and made him feel a little weak in the knees. That had only gotten worse with each meeting.  
  
"He seems friendly enough with me?"   
  
"Exactly. I'm just warning you, mate. To be cautious round him. Holmes men aren't exactly known for their level of affection and care. Mycroft even less so than Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage should be tattooed across his big old forehead, he's that type."   
  
Greg watched how serious John was and burst into laughter, shaking his head as tears formed in his eyes. This was ridiculous.   
  
"Mate, all due respect, you don't have to worry about me having my heart broken. I'm not gonna break because some guy doesn't look at me twice." He rolled his eyes and watched John relax substantially. "Right, I've gotta go. Text me when you want to go pub, yeah?" With a smile and a wave, Greg slipped into the car and watched the other man walk back into the flat. He could see Sherlock watching him from the window and gave a wave, noticing that he was being completely ignored. He didn't care about that, he felt confused. Confused and tired.  
  
So John felt the need to warn him away from Mycroft. He wasn't a man that exactly cared for others; at least that was what Greg got from that conversation. Who said he was looking for companionship anyways? Mycroft had just asked for his help, there was nothing else to it. Even if he did think the man was stunning, that wasn't meaning he was going to go pining after him like some teenage idiot.   
  
He wasn't looking for love. He wasn't lonely. Was he? 


End file.
